


Let Me Bid You Farewell

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e22 Two Cathedrals, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-25
Updated: 2006-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-30 11:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Donna's feelings on the events inTwo Cathedralsand her anticipation of Bartlet's answer tothe big question of re-election.





	Let Me Bid You Farewell

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

 

TITLE: Our Two Consciences: Let Me Bid You Farewell  
(1/1)  
AUTHOR: Laurel A. --"Feed me  
back!"  
SPOILERS: Everything up to, and including, Two  
Cathedrals.  
RATING: PG  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine (thank your lucky stars); Aaron  
Sorkin's (thank your lucky stars again!)  
ARCHIVE: Anyplace, just let me know.  
SUMMARY: Donna's feelings on the events in Two  
Cathedrals and her anticipation of Bartlet's answer to  
the big question of re-election.  
STUFF: Geepers, the season went by so fast! Thanks to  
Michelle who encouraged me to write, who has become an  
amazing friend as well. Thanks to everyone who sent  
us feedback encouraging us to write more. "And I'll  
See You In September...."

This is the final installment for Season Two in the  
Josh/Donna Post-Ep POV series, "Our Two Consciences"  
by Michelle Hoffmann and myself (although you don't  
have to have read any of the others to jump on in  
now):

Roles by Laurel A.  
Masks by Michelle H.  
Donna Moss Talks About Sex and Joey Lucas by Laurel A.  
Josh Lyman Talks About Strategy by Michelle H.  
Late At Night In The Soft Warm Glow by Laurel A.  
Perfect Clarity by Michelle H.  
I Confess by Laurel A.  
Static Electricity by Michelle H.  
Change, Gratitude, and the Heartbreak Turtles by Laurel A.  
Transformation by Michelle H.  
Bast, a Bowler, and Bucking for a Promotion by Laurel A.  
Filibusters, Falls, and Feline Avengers by Michelle H.  
Take, Take Me Home by Laurel A.  
The Very First Lie by Michelle H.  
Reality Called by Laurel A.  
I Dream of a Dominatrix by Michelle H.  
Chicken Little by Laurel A.  
Trust by Michelle H.  
Discretion by Laurel A.  
Deru by Michelle H.

Margaret and I are in her car, driving to the State  
Department. The storm is blowing full out and the  
wipers are going full speed in a futile attempt to  
keep the windshield clear. We are on our way to hear  
the President tell the country that he isn't going to  
run for re-election. At least that is what we think  
we are going to hear.

Neither Margaret nor I know for sure what Answer B is,  
but that's what Josh told Toby the answer was when Leo  
called the senior staff into their meeting. From the  
tenor of Josh's voice, the look on Toby's face, and  
the way they left the meeting looking beaten down and  
defeated, we have a pretty good guess.

After the meeting you could tell that each person was  
dealing with what they'd just heard in their own way,  
letting its full weight and meaning privately sink in.  
They retreated to their offices, gathering up files,  
staring out windows, and watching CNN's clips from the  
President's television interview and the accompanying  
commentary.

While Josh stared out his windows at the rain, his  
back to the droning television, Margaret called to let  
me know that the President was ready to hear my report  
on the storm that was bearing down on us.

As I walked almost methodically to Leo's office, I was  
thinking about my conversation with the lead  
forecaster at NOAA's National Weather Service. She  
provided me with much of the information on the storm,  
which I was about to relay to the President. As I  
spoke to her I wondered if she'd already heard about  
the President's MS, and if there was anything in my  
voice that would betray my dread and sorrow about what  
I feared was coming at the press conference.

I felt like a quisling when I made the call. I had  
wanted no contact with the outside world. The tension  
and the intensity in the West Wing tonight was a  
private thing. At least until the press conference,  
what this night is about and we are going through  
belongs to us. I didn't want to share it with anyone.

Getting the assignment to track the storm was part of  
the essence of what tonight was for me. It allowed me  
to indulgently dwell on the painfully obvious  
symbolism of the storm. And, it gave me a reason to  
talk with the President; gave me my chance to tell him  
that we were proud. I don't know if hearing that from  
an assistant meant anything to him, but it was  
important to me to say it anyway.

The President and I love the miniscule and obscure  
facts that are behind everyday things. The minutiae  
that you find allow you to get inside of things, to  
see them in a way that no one else does. To _know_  
things in a way that no one else cares to.

For me, having knowledge of seemingly mundane facts  
doesn't make the world more impersonal, like you would  
think. It's the opposite really, you become intimate  
with things, and they become immensely personal. You  
are allowed to see the hidden meanings, where and why  
things came to be, and how things are connected. And  
sometimes, you are allowed to see things about  
yourself that eluded you before.

I think the President knows this, and I like to think  
that he sees it in me as well, even though I haven't  
yet figured out a way to share it with anyone. Where  
I come off as annoying, the President uses his  
detailed knowledge with ease. He can pull trivial  
facts, both scientific and literary, into casual  
discussions to illustrate points; and into political  
discussions to win battles, to bring people together,  
and to inspire.

CJ's knock on the door ended my brief time with the  
President. I re-traced my steps back to my desk,  
silently gathered my things, put on my raincoat, and  
went to meet Margaret to make the drive to the State  
Department. We barely spoke on our way out of the  
White House, the weight of the day and the weight of  
what was coming silencing us.

As we ride in the car now, I think how the whole day  
has had a strange and surreal feel to it, switching  
gears from the tobacco case, to Mrs. Landingham's  
funeral, to the President's TV interview; the storm  
punctuating the day's events with cliché thunder,  
lightning, and gale force winds. None of it has  
seemed real and all of a sudden I feel like my whole  
reality is getting helplessly shifted and blown about;  
everything I have come to rely on is now tenuous, at  
best.

And I still keep wondering, "Is this how it works?"  
Leo and the President in a room, deciding in effect,  
the future of the country. The thought makes me angry  
for a moment.

These are our jobs too. We all have a stake in this  
and it doesn't seem fair. We have put our lives into  
these jobs, into this administration, into this man.  
This one man.

It must be a heavy weight for one person to carry.  
Sometimes I forget that it is all on President  
Bartlet's shoulders, that he _is_ that one person.  
He's always been Governor Bartlet, and then President  
Bartlet, to me; a man with more power, strength, and  
wisdom than I had ever seen in a person. I forget  
sometimes that he is not only _the_ person but also,  
simply, _a_ person; I think we all forget that. But,  
Mrs. Landingham knew it.

Through her memory I am reminded that he alone is the  
one who must make the decision and he is the one who  
has to run for re-election. He must decide to put  
himself out there. Out there to be examined, exposed,  
and put under a microscope. Maybe he hopes, that  
similar to the way learning the minutiae helps him see  
what is at the hidden heart of things, the country  
will see what is in his heart as they learn the hidden  
minutiae of his life.

I love working for him. I love working at the White  
House, in the West Wing. I love my life in  
Washington, DC. I love the people I work with and I  
love the things we work for. And as much as I have  
been fighting the feeling, tonight has the feel of  
finality to it; that all those things I love will come  
to a lost and lonely end.

The intensity with which we work and live is all  
consuming. And when the day comes when it is all  
over, I know how I will feel. I will be empty;  
nothing will ever compare, nothing will ever be the  
same. Tonight I will find out when that day will be.

The storm cracks out another bolt of lightning and an  
almost immediate rumble of thunder as Margaret parks  
the car and we run through the rain into the building.

We hurriedly enter the back of the auditorium in time  
to hear the end of CJ's portion of the press  
conference. We see Carol give CJ the nod and she  
introduces the President.

He steps up to the podium painfully slowly and it  
seems like time has slowed down. He looks around,  
takes in the room, and calls on Sandy.

Margaret and I glance at each other before locking our  
eyes back on the President. We know from Carol that  
he was supposed to call on Lawrence Altman from the  
Times first.

Sandy doesn't hesitate for a second. She almost leaps  
out of her seat and asks point blank if the President  
will be seeking a second term. There is a blinding  
series of cracking flash bulbs and a thunder of  
shutter clicks that echo the storm outside.

The President asks her to repeat the question. I lean  
forward a bit, straining to hear. I am afraid I will  
miss something. Sandy repeats her question, exactly  
as before. The President takes a long pause, pulls  
back and looks off to the side before leaning into the  
microphone. I try to imagine what is going through  
his mind as he forms his answer. It's like he is  
remembering something out of the past.

Maybe this man, in his own mind and for his own  
reasons, has made private decisions and he needs to  
steady himself before he can share his intimate  
knowledge. Maybe, the minutiae of the storm have told  
him something that we weren't allowed to hear. Yet.

END

  


End file.
